The Stacks
by In Dreams
Summary: Hermione meets her blond-haired addiction. PWP. Written for Strictly Dramione's Valentine's Day Smut Fest 2018.


**Author's Note:** Hello! This is my submission for Strictly Dramione's Valentines Day Smut Fest 2018. This is just a smutty little one-shot and is mostly PWP. I hope you enjoy!

I have another fest one-shot which will be posted very soon as well. Yay!

Beta'd by the lovely LaBelladone x

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

Hermione adjusted her Oxford as she breezed through the corridors of Hogwarts at a healthy clip. She cringed as each step echoed brazenly off the stone walls of the empty hallway and lightened her tread.

It was early enough that most of the students, professors, ghosts and other residents of the castle were still asleep – but yet, making unnecessary noise felt a little like taunting the beast.

She was late enough as it was, having most absurdly forgotten she was out of inkwells until she had been halfway down from Gryffindor Tower – and would surely be hearing about her careless lack of punctuality.

Several portraits glared at her, drawn from their slumber by her presence, while others shook their heads and clicked their tongues, as if knowing her destination. Ignoring them, Hermione carried on.

She deliberately slowed her pace when she arrived at the library and fixed her hair, smoothing a wrinkle from her shirt. With a non-verbal _Alohomora_ , she slipped through the doors. Her feet led her through the darkness, only the soft light of dawn breaking through the windows, the route automatic as she followed the twisting path through the aisles into the shadowy stacks at the back of the library.

The books – aptly stacked – on these shelves were old, disorganized and considered wholly irrelevant. No students ever came this far back; even the librarian didn't bother with them.

"You're late," a cold voice drawled.

"You'll live," she snapped, turning to the source of the voice. She met the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy, illuminated in the faint light by the flecks of silver she was close enough to see. He had beautiful eyes, not that she would ever admit it to him.

"It isn't as if the time varies from day to day," he carried on casually. A smirk came to his lips and Hermione wanted to punch it from his face. She carefully set her book bag on the floor beside his and turned back to face him.

"You're still talking," Hermione stated blandly. A cold bark of laughter.

"Your hair is still atrocious. And yet, here we are," he clipped.

"Shut up, you like it," she breathed, as he took a step closer.

"Whatever you say," he said, matching her low tone. With a sudden movement, he grabbed a fistful of her curly brown hair, tangling his fingers in it, and gave a sharp tug, exposing her neck. She caught the predatory gleam in his eyes as he leaned in, dragging his teeth along her neck.

"If I like it," he continued softly, his other hand coming up to undo the first two buttons of her Oxford, "it's only because you always look freshly fucked."

Hermione dug her teeth into her lower lip on the whimper that nearly slipped from her lips as he sucked at the delicate spot at her pulse. He backed her into the shelves and Hermione could feel the hard length of him, already pressing insistently against her.

Her hands, trembling slightly as desire heated and pooled in her core, unfastened the tie at his throat, grazing the lean muscles of his chest and abdomen as she unbuttoned his shirt. She knew better than to try to remove his shirt – he was always careful to keep whatever remained of his Dark Mark covered – and she also knew better than to ask about it.

Malfoy drew away, his breath mingling with hers as he stared at her for a long moment, his grey eyes unnervingly focused, his chin down and lips parted.

"You're fucking insane for wanting this," he murmured with a sneer. He grabbed one of her breasts, roughly, his other hand going to her back, drawing her tight against him.

"Must you talk?" she rolled her eyes. She knew, all too well, how entirely insane it was.

His eyes narrowed, burning with distaste but mingled with lust and she knew her own echoed the same.

"Fuck you," he murmured and his lips crushed hers. The kiss was aggressive, heated, forceful – his tongue met hers, possessively, passionately and she returned in kind, grasping his face and pulling his silken hair as she kissed him back. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, none too gently, as he made quick work of the remaining buttons on her shirt.

Hermione reached for his belt, slipping the buckle loose and undoing his trousers as he released her lips, trailing a path down her neck and chest. Distracted as his tongue met the delicate skin between the curve of her breasts, Hermione threw her head back with a groan, smashing it directly into the shelf behind her. She recoiled with a wince, hoping he hadn't noticed.

Malfoy looked up and snickered. "Careful, Granger. If you knock yourself out, I am _not_ taking you to the hospital wing like this." Then he returned to his task, flicking his tongue over a nipple through the thin red lace of her bra.

"You're an arse," she whispered, even as she whimpered at his ministrations. She returned to his trousers, pushing them from his slim hips. He hummed against her chest as her hands found the length of him, restricted still by his boxers.

He slipped a hand beneath the pleats of her skirt, playing over the tops of her stockings before sliding upward along the inside of her thigh.

"An arse who can make you dripping wet," he growled, a wicked grin slipping to his features.

Hermione could not argue with him.

He released her, dropping to his knees as he pushed her skirt up, both hands now finding the waistband of her knickers. Slowly he dragged them down, nudging her to lift one leg, and then the other.

"Someone was feeling fancy this morning," he said, admiring the matching red lace knickers. With a smirk, he tucked them into the pocket of his trousers on the floor, like a prize. Her responding indignation was cut off as he ducked in, his tongue meeting the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs.

Then he paused and adjusted one of her legs over his shoulder. With a teasing flick he looked back up at her, head tilted in amusement.

"You know, Granger, just because it's February 14th, this does _not_ make me your Valentine."

"Thank Merlin for that," she clipped, digging a hand into his blond hair as he snickered and dove back in, licking and sucking at her while he slipped two fingers inside of her, groaning appreciatively at the wet and welcoming tightness.

Hermione's eyes fluttered as she surrendered herself to his actions, every thrust of his fingers and flick of his tongue pushing her closer to her release. And when it crashed over her like a wave she groaned his name, catching herself from crying out.

He lingered for a moment, staring up at her as his warm breath stimulated the over-sensitive nerves, his grey eyes full of a heat that instantly made Hermione squirm and want more.

Malfoy dropped her leg and stood, kissing her unapologetically and Hermione could taste herself on his tongue as she clung to him, drawing him closer with abandon.

A low growl escaped his throat as she reached for his boxers, pushing them from his hips and he maneuvered them the rest of the way down, discarding them with his slacks.

He kissed her again and entered her fully in one swift movement, biting down hard on her lip as they both adjusted to the feel of it. He hitched her up by the backs of her thighs, and Hermione wrapped her legs tightly around his waist as he sank further into her, and she let out a sigh of contentment. _This_ was why she put up with his attitude.

"Fuck, Granger," he hissed, his breathing heavy as he began to move, teasingly, his teeth meeting the sensitive skin of her neck once more.

Hermione's eyes fell shut, and she gasped and whimpered as he picked up speed and intensity, her back pressed against the sturdy shelves.

He tugged at her hair, trailing kisses along her jaw and to her mouth again, and Hermione wove her hands into his hair as she kissed him, feverishly meeting every stroke of his tongue, every tantalizing bite. And with each thrust of him inside of her, as her heart pounded wildly against her chest, her mind spun off to that glorious place where nothing mattered but this and how he could make her feel.

Not the war, or how they had fought for opposing sides; not the way he continued to glare at her in classes; not even how she somehow _knew_ he had been as broken by it all as she had, and he just didn't know how else to cope.

As he slammed into her, his breathing ragged, her back colliding against the bookshelf, Hermione fell into the sensations that she knew no one else would ever understand.

When she came undone, choking out his surname, and he followed after, gasping out hers, she sagged in his arms and he carefully set her down as their breathing slowed.

He briefly held her stare, his stormy grey eyes glazed, before turning to dress himself once more.

"My knickers?" Hermione asked, holding out a hand as she righted herself as well. Idly the thought passed her mind that she was out of bruise salve, and would most certainly be feeling the encounter later.

"Mine, now," he said quietly, patting the pocket where the red lace was contained, a soft smirk on his lips. "A Valentine's Day souvenir, if you will."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You aren't my Valentine," she said mockingly. She picked up her book bag and slung it over a shoulder.

" _Fuck_ no," he said exaggeratedly, smirking. "But no one else will be, either."

"Oh no?" she asked, raising a challenging eyebrow. Not that she had anyone else in mind.

"No," he said shortly, sneering in distaste. He adjusted the knot at his tie. "I don't share."

"Fine," Hermione said dismissively, ignoring whatever it was in her stomach that twisted at his words. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Of course," he drawled, picking up his own bag and robes. He leaned in, giving one last bite to her lower lip, nearly hard enough to break the skin. "See you in class, Granger."

Then he was gone. Hermione waited several minutes before following him from the dark, dusty stacks of the library and walked to the Great Hall for breakfast.

* * *

At dinner that evening, when the usual flood of owls entered the hall clutching copies of the _Evening Prophet_ , Hermione glanced up in surprise as a large, elegant owl dropped a small package in her plate.

Mildly curious, she carefully unwrapped the paper and opened the small box. She stifled a gasp as she lifted out the impossibly small, lacy green scrap of designer lingerie, quickly tucking it back into the box before anyone could notice.

Taking the small sheet of parchment within tightly into her hand, she shoved the box deep into her bag, ignoring the curious glances of her friends. She inconspicuously read the note.

 _To my non-Valentine. For next time._

It wasn't signed. It didn't need to be.

She quickly glanced across the room, finding his heated grey eyes already on her. A hint of a devilish smirk crossed his lips and with a flicker of his brows, he returned to his conversation with Nott.

Averting her gaze to her own dinner plate, Hermione balled the slip of parchment in a fist, her heart racing furiously. _Non-Valentine_.

It was nothing, between them. It was only ever sex.

But yet, something in his eyes had whispered seductive promises of _tomorrow_.


End file.
